Like this:

Amarillo

like that streetwandered down streetno siesta noonshadowed woman leansblack iron filigree not quite a balconylace the colour of some-place elsedrawn as if a breezepecan smooth her face

what would the story be?choose that place you should not gowalnut doors second floorbarefoot invitationwhisper of late grapeshint of something strongdull embroidered armchairunlaced bootsdusted finger printssmooth as kisses tablefolded towelsuncertain colourenameled basinclear glass tumblerslemons sliced in watersunlight striping something velvet on the bed

We’d hold ourselves like prayers between each other
bare feet, beating hearts
soft by each breath
full moon kisses
beyond any daylight horizon

it was one o’ clock this morning.
woke up no particular reason
didn’t even need to pee.
kitchen floor so cold I hurt for shoes
stood there adjusting to Frigidaire light
three bottles of beer on the second shelf
opened one by the window
chugged a salute to those long
hard rain halos

this is not the city I used to know with you

maybe I go for another
maybe it’ll help me sleep
probably not
these days once I’m up
even beer can’t touch me

deserted even by the small comfort of your ghost
still I sway as if somehow
we’re dancing

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links to the full issue #1 and the Journal for submissions of your own work

A story, a story!(Let it go. Let it come.)I was stamped out like a Plymouth fenderinto this world.First came the cribwith its glacial bars.Then dollsand the devotion to their plasctic mouths.Then there was school,the little straight rows of chairs,blotting my name over and over,but undersea all the time,a stranger whose elbows wouldn’t work.Then there was lifewith its cruel housesand people who seldom touched-though touch is all-but I grew,like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,and then there were many strange apparitions,the nagging rain, the sun turning into poisonand all of that, saws working through my heart,but I grew, I grew,and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,and I grew, I grew,I wore rubies and bought tomatoesand now, in my middle age,about nineteen in the head I’d say,I am rowing, I am rowingthough the oarlocks stick and are rustyand the sea blinks and rollslike a worried eyeball,but I am rowing, I am rowing,though the wind pushes me backand I know that that island will not be perfect,it will have the flaws of life,the absurdities of the dinner table,but there will be a doorand I will open itand I will get rid of the rat insdie me,the gnawing pestilential rat.God will take it with his two handsand embrace it.

As the African says:This is my tale which I have told,if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,take somewhere else and let some return to me.This story ends with me still rowing.

– from The Awful Rowing Towards God 1975

( Her eighth collection of poetry is entitled The Awful Rowing Toward God.The title came from her meeting with a Roman Catholic priest who, unwilling to administer last rites, told her “God is in your typewriter.” This gave the poet the desire and willpower to continue living and writing. The Awful Rowing Toward God and The Death Notebooks are among her final works, and both center on the theme of dying

On October 4, 1974, Sexton had lunch with Kumin to revise galleys for Sexton’s manuscript of The Awful Rowing Toward God, scheduled for publication in March 1975 (Middlebrook 396). On returning home she put on her mother’s old fur coat, removed all her rings, poured herself a glass of vodka, locked herself in her garage, and started the engine of her car, ending her life by carbon monoxide poisoning.[12]

Sexton is seen as the modern model of the confessional poet. Maxine Kumin described Sexton’s work: “She wrote openly about menstruation, abortion, masturbation, incest, adultery, and drug addiction at a time when the proprieties embraced none of these as proper topics for poetry.”[13]

THE AUTHOR OF THE JESUS PAPERS SPEAKS

In my dream I milked a cow, the terrible udder like a great rubber lily sweated in my fingers and as I yanked, waiting for the moon juice, waiting for the white mother, blood spurted from it and covered me with shame. Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper. So I went to the well and drew a baby out of the hollow water. Then God spoke to me and said: Here. Take this gingerbread lady and put her in your oven. When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.

Anne Sexton from The Book of Folly 1972

the girls i knew in high school were all enamored with Sylvia. and i must admit i was some what smitten. but there was this teacher of English. she did not debate but rather exposed the rare woman genius the all too common crucifixion the dark stronger that the bright, the strength to take control in a time in a place where all is only waiting around food feeding on food attracted like horseflies to tenderness. the time was she said now and so the time was and so she said it was therefore it would be now and never any other time but. – pd lyons

This was originally published in 1979, Dimensions Magazine. A publication of the then called Mattatuck Community College. I still remember showing the magazine to my grandmother. i felt very proud of the fact that there were 3 of mine in it. Her only comment was did you have to use such language? Referring to the bitch. I have made a few changes to the original but I could not find a way to get away from the bitch. So yes gran’ma , guess I really had to.

We’d hold ourselves like prayers between each other bare feet, beating heartssoft by each breathfull moon kissesbeyond any daylight horizon

it was one o’ clock this morning. woke up no particular reasondidn’t even need to pee.kitchen floor so cold I hurt for shoesstood there adjusting to Frigidaire lightthree bottles of beer on the second shelfopened one by the windowchugged a salute to those long hard rain halosthis is not the city I used to know with youmaybe I go for anothermaybe it’ll help me sleepprobably notthese days once I’m up even beer can’t touch me

deserted even by the small comfort of your ghoststill I sway as if somehowwe’re dancing